The Brewing Yuk Factor

Henry in bed, listening to Freddie King on colored radio, somewhere in Georgia—just some slow moving Texas blues, sweet and blue as the rain fall.—

Wanting on the fast track, wanting out to get the fuck out. Waiting for his baby to take him outta here.  

Writing — busted up form, a splash of color and a crap shoot.

Henry a lazy writer, he had to drag himself to the keyboard.  It wasn’t a passion for him, more a dull itch.

Henry didn’t like people. In the old days the pikers new their place at the gaming table, today anybody with a blog is a super star— way too much self, self and more self everywhere you looked. 

Andy Warhol  the gay prophet of the brewing yuk-factor. 

“Everybody will have fifteen minutes of fame.” 

Including the boring yuks, the yuk-yuks are tripping all over each other like spawning Salmon in heat to get theirs.

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